


"If you're going to pester, do it well," saith the Holmes boys

by Auzzie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John and Hamish-centric for some reason, M/M, Parentlock, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auzzie/pseuds/Auzzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all that Hamish is like John, he is definitely Sherlock's son, too.</p><p>A series of small experiences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"If you're going to pester, do it well," saith the Holmes boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shwarya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shwarya/gifts).



> Note: Originally written and posted as one-shotesque chapters.

 

**On Teasing**

John glanced back to his son for the umpteenth time that evening, careless about getting noticed, but not sure if he needed to intervene yet.

Hamish and Sherlock were not as alike as one might think upon seeing the two side-by-side for the first time. Though Sherlock's passed traits were evident, the parent Hamish was most alike in personality was John. Being the child of two bold, vivid personalities such as John Watson-Holmes and Sherlock Watson-Holmes, however, it was no surprise that the boy was his own very distinct person despite everything, and John could not any more proud of his son; a great young man he was already turning out to be.

One thing he did have in common with Sherlock, though, was was so uncanny in its appearance that John still couldn't believe it wasn't an act on his son's part.

Hamish sulked.

Hamish sulked like only the son of Sherlock Watson-Holmes could sulk, with his back to the world, his body curled and limp, and with an air of "don't ask (but please do, John/dad)" that was so thick he could feel it from the stairs. And now was the time for a Hamish Sulk, it seemed.

Hamish didn't fall back on these sessions very often, only getting into one when he couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to go to his fathers about something. John hated to see his son in one of these moods, but he also didn't want to interrupt Hamish if he was trying to work through a problem on his own. So, as he had been doing since the boy had collapsed down on the rug between his chair and Sherlock's, John continued to read his paper and peek at his son between articles.

One glance had John looking at the hand clenched to the back of Hamish's head, no doubt pulling out some dark strands of hair, and John finally found reason to act. He set his paper aside and eased himself down to the rug, gently untangling his son's hand from his hair.

"Hamish," he said as the boy rolled to face him. He was nearly expressionless, but something vaguely similar to relief masked just under the non-expression made him wish he had stepped in sooner. He sat back against his chair and watched Hamish. "Something on your mind?" A question he was glad his son wouldn't make a snarky remark about, though Sherlock would, he was sure.

They sat in silence for a few moments as John watched his boy stare at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, planning his words.

"I don't understand why it's supposed to bother me," Hamish began.

"What is supposed to bother you?"

Quiet breaths, but for a much shorter stretch. "You and father; your jobs. Him in general."

"It's not… supposed to bother you," John told him, confused. "Is this about those two kids in your class? Did they say something again?"

Hamish nodded and sat up. "Just more of the same teasing, but… I just don't understand it."

"They're teasing you, you don't have to try to understand it."

"No, I mean that I don't follow their logic. Why would they think I should be bothered by The Work? I like it." John internally groaned. "And, well," their eyes traveled to Sherlock's empty chair. "He's father. I don't see why they would pick two amazing things and try to make me ashamed of them."

John couldn't believe his son was moping about the poor bullies this universe seemed to have appointed to him, and he said so, glad to see Hamish perk up in response.

His son shifted to sit between John's unfolded legs, back resting against his chest, and John set his chin on the boy's head.

"But it doesn't bother you?"

"No," Hamish said, and John hugged his son around the waist.

"That's good."

They remained on the rug like that, talking, then dozing off until Sherlock came home to move his son to the upstairs bedroom, and his husband to their own.

* * *

 

**On School Trips pt. 1**

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"John, if I wanted to surround myself with unfocused, slow minds I would spend my time at Scotland Yard." Sherlock shifted and threw himself further back into his chair, dramatic petulance evident in every movement.

"Hamish wants one of us there, and I  _have_ to work that day," John told him.

"What a shame, so do I."

John nearly gaped. "You have absolutely no cases right now."

"Of course I do."

"What, the one with the painted snails? The Yard isn't even looking at with that one."

"There are always cases," his husband said.

"Not here."

"Elsewhere."

There was a deafening silence as the two stared, John unable to believe what he was hearing, and Sherlock waiting and annoyed.

"Sherlock, it's just a school trip!" John shouted at last.

"It's boring, John!" Sherlock's hands moved with sharp gestures.

 _"Sherlock!"_  And John had no idea what to say.

"One of us should be there with him, and I can't be it," John implored after a time. "He's not comfortable with the setting, but he wants to go with his class. Please, Sherlock, it won't last more than a few hours."

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he stared over John's left shoulder.

When ten minutes passed and nothing more came from Sherlock, John decided he'd have to be the one to tell Hamish after he returned home. He wasn't sure what their son's decision would be - to either go without them, or not at all - but John knew Hamish was already expecting this outcome, and he almost hated that his son didn't have different parents. Better parents. John couldn't wish for a greater life, but there were times, when his family was threatened by a deranged mind, or when Sherlock went into a strop, or when Sherlock  _was_ that deranged mind, that he wasn't sure if Hamish felt the same, and John wouldn't blame him.

With a resigned sigh, John stood from his chair and padded into the kitchen, pulling out the dish Mrs. Hudson had brought up for tea.

He was glancing at the time, wiping fruit residue from his fingers, when two long arms curled around his upper waist, and a body pressed against his back momentarily before it pulled away. Sherlock's forehead settled on to John's shoulder, and his nose knocked against it as he murmured, "Fine."

John leaned his head back against Sherlock's, feeling his husband's hair at the base of his neck, and wasn't even ashamed at the relief he felt knowing that, that day, they weren't disappointing Hamish.

* * *

 

**On School Trips pt. 2**

John lifted his head in a mock glance, focused on the bags he was sorting through on the table. He flashed Hamish a smile, glad to know his son was home, and his husband's footsteps sounded not far behind.

"How was the trip?" he asked as he moved to the freezer. If Sherlock didn't leave room enough for him to at least store the peas...

"Great, actually. Father-" Hamish began, but John, who had just turned around, interrupted him.

"Sorry, what's that?" He gestured to the black dust that clung to his family's bodies, their faces smudged where they had obviously tried to clean up. Sherlock and Hamish simply stared back at John from where they were stood alongside one another, just inside the doorway.

Everyone was at a loss for words, it seemed - a common occurrence in the Watson-Holmes family.

John wasn't sure if he should have been worrying over his family or apologizing to a school official. "What happened?"

When Hamish grinned at him, only a little sheepish, he had his answer. John's eyes swung up to his husband. "It was an outdoor exhibit, how did you-" he abruptly cut himself off, dug out his phone, and wandered into the other room in search of the school phone book.

In the kitchen, Hamish cast a side-long glance at his father, and Sherlock returned the look, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Hamish huffed a quiet laugh, and Sherlock nodded in the direction of the hallway. "You shower first."

* * *

 

**On Six-Fingered Men**

Hamish murmured something incoherent as his dad sat on the edge of his mattress.

"Hamish?"

"Mm?" He raised an eyebrow, his eyes still shut to block out the early light.

"Your father needs me to stop by Barts before work, so I'm heading out early, alright?" John laid a hand on his son's shoulder, hoping that the jostling would keep the boy at least partially awake, as it seemed Hamish had mastered the art of Convincing People (With The Exception Of Sherlock) That He Is Awake When He Is, In Fact, Not. "And Mrs. Hudson wondered if you wanted to watch some films with her after brunch."

The boy wiggled around so he could face the open room. He peered up at his dad from the corner of his eye. "Will there be muffins?"

John smiled. "The oven was on when I popped in."

Hamish peeked at the watch on John's wrist, though he could just barely make out the numbers. "You can go back to sleep," John told him, having noticed his son's squinting glance.

"'lright," Hamish forced out. He fell back and stared through his dad.

John pat Hamish affectionately and squeezed his upper arm. "I love you."

"Love you," the boy mumbled back, and John was a little surprised he was still awake enough to give a response at all.

 

**\---**

Hamish awoke to a few sturdy taps and a "Hoo-hoo!" from his doorway. He just barely managed to pry his eyelids open when Mrs. Hudson walked in, heading directly for his curtains.

"You've been asleep all morning, dear. Don't you want something in your stomach?"

He pushed up on his elbows and watched her fret over his unorganized stack of library books - ones that he really needed to return before too long, he thought idly. He kept a blank bore trained on the spot Mrs. Hudson had stood until she was beside his bed, laying a hand on his forehead.

"Are you feeling alright, Hamish?"

He breathed a deep sigh and stretched out of her warm palm. "M'only tired."

"You must have slept too long, dear. Why don't we get you downstairs, fill you up, and pop in some of our old favorites this go-round?"

Hamish grinned up at her the best he could manage through his haze.

Hudson Days, (days in which both Dad and Father were out, he was home, and Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to entertain him), were almost ritualistic to them. Hamish would wake and prepare to face the day while Mrs. Hudson readied their meal and set out a verity of DVDs and videotapes. After they ate, they would lay out the films and immerse themselves in their marathon. Between classes and cases, (because he tried as best he could to keep up on cases, whether Dad liked it or not), Hudson Days were therapeutic. And spending time with the woman who was his grandmother in all but blood only added to his enthusiasm regarding the day.

"Dad said you made muffins?"

She brushed gentle fingers through his short, dark hair. "Does banana-nut sound edible?"

This time his grin was wide enough to dimple his cheeks.

 

**\---**

It was late in the evening that Sherlock and John came home together and, knowing where their son would be, they went straight to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

When their landlady opened the door, looking fond and absent and rest rumpled, they simply followed her inside, not in a rush to return to their own rooms. Hamish was found to be curled against the arm of her petal pink sofa, comfortably nested in an array of blankets. His hand was poking out of the bundles, thumb resting on the play button, and when Mrs. Hudson walked past his parents and folded herself back into the cushions, he started the film without much of a greeting.

Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in sticking around for much longer than was necessary, but when John moved to sit himself on the loveseat along the far wall, already wrapped up in the chase between Inigo and Count Rugen, he resigned himself to another insipid eve.

Sherlock nudged his husband slightly as if to remind John that watching the ending of  _one_ film would ruin his day - because apparently the ill-placed mop he'd had his own row with at Barts that morning wasn't enough - but settled all the same. It wasn't long after that John felt Sherlock sag into him, though he didn't realize why until Hamish was up, flicking on a lamp, and exchanging the disc for a tape.

John felt Sherlock's soft breaths puff against his neck as he slept through the next three hours, even when John eased them both to a sprawl across the seat.

The peace that surrounded his family left John so serene that he didn't mind it when he had to, essentially, carry them all to their beds.

* * *

 

**On Secrets and Siblings**

There was never a time that Hamish feared strangers as a whole - individuals, yes, but not just anyone and everyone. He was wary of those that carried with them an air of criminal intent, but when he was younger he kept hold of a strong belief that his family could protect him from anything. And they did, for the most part.

One day, however, Hamish had been cornered by a man who was not in a good state of mind. His eyes were void of thought and emotion when he had attacked Hamish, and it still struck deep within him that someone could become so lost to themselves that they wouldn't flinch or balk at the realization that they were harming a youth, of all things.

It was fortunate that someone, a young woman with too bright lipstick and soft gray-green eyes, had heard his cries from behind a timeworn building and seized the man until help arrived. When he inevitably met her again, along the same path he had taken the day he was attacked, he learned her name, ("Oh, right! Sorry. Eve... um... Eve Johnson.") and her business on that path each day. ("I like working at the library, but I want to do something bigger, Hamish.) She was forgetful and fidgety, quiet at first but louder as time went on, and Eve remained one of his closest friends.

They rarely ever spoke of what it was that initially brought them together, and they didn't need to; the residual shock of that situation didn't stick with him for too long - he was a resilient boy; needed to be, in his family. That day was just an event of the past - a poor place for anyone to find themselves in, but not one that Hamish liked to dwell on.

What did catch Hamish off guard was the eventual realization that his family hadn't been able to protect his wrist from cracking against a ragged cement wall, nor his nose from bruising a painter's palette of dark shades.

He was not angry at them for not being there at the time, and he was not disappointed that his longtime perception of how his safety worked was ruined. Instead, Hamish was awakened to the fact that, though his family would do anything to protect him, there likely would come times in which he had to face circumstances like that again.

Which was why he had made arrangements to learn how to help himself.

Dad would not approve, (though he did have a fascinating ability to surprise anyone), and Father, it was quite possible, would end up even more vehement against what he was doing than anyone. Knowing this, Hamish, and those that he had asked to aid him, planned to keep his parents in the dark about his lessons for as long as possible. He may not mind his dad knowing of what was taking place, but for the sake of avoiding Father's wrath as long as he was able, they had chosen not to tell him yet.

Those plans, judging by the pretty black car crawling along the curb, were finally being put into action.

"Is that him?" Eve asked quietly, as if someone would roll down one of the tinted windows and get violent were she to be overheard.

"I doubt it, but they'll take me to him." Hamish smiled up at her. "See you tomorrow."

"Please be careful!" She called at his back, and she briefly entertained the thought of sliding into the seat beside him. Hamish had explained everything to her, and she wasn't happy about the mystery of it all, but she trusted him to know what he was doing.

As soon as he saw the man in the window seat across the car, Hamish's excitement dwindled more than he would admit.

"Mr. Craig," Hamish greeted with as much a smile as he could muster.

The man just nodded to him and went back to staring ahead. Painfully professional as always, Mr. Craig didn't even leave a blond hair out of place atop his head. Hamish found himself forcing his eyes away from the man's hair, unable to understand how product even managed to mold it that way.

In his haste to cover his previous staring, Hamish let slip the first question that came to mind each time he saw the man. "Where's Anthea?"

Immediate, as if expecting him to ask (with good reason) Mr. Craig said, "She is assisting Mr. Holmes today as he prepares your lesson."

"He's going to be there?"

"Of course."

They did not speak again until Hamish was greeted by Anthea at one of Mycroft's mock factories, and it was only because Hamish was used to saying goodbye that they spoke at all.

 

**\---**

Hamish held back a grin when he was led to his uncle, who was waiting for him in a room that kept a small dining table fit for two. Everything was lit overhead with ugly yellow and green, and the walls were solid grey slabs of stone, but he was used to the make of these dramatic setups. Mycroft, as a Holmes, was inherently fond of them.

"Good afternoon, Hamish." Uncle Mycroft tapped his spoon against his tea cup before he set it off to the side and took a sip. He looked every bit the part of an extremely powerful man, save for the sweet pastry set out before him - which really wouldn't take away from the image if it were't for his father's cracks at his uncle's diet.

"Hello." Hamish took his place at the table left his school bag with Anthea. Behind him, he felt, more than heard, her leave.

"Your fathers remain clueless, correct?" Mycroft asked, though Hamish was sure that his uncle would be the first to know if something changed.

Still, he answered, "They should be."

"And you are sure you want to do this now?" It was obvious to Hamish, when he had first requested his uncle's help, that Mycroft very much agreed with his decision to take defense and fighting lessons. His relief that it was so easy a conversation upon the first mention of it still sat with him as he confirmed that, yes, he needed to learn to protect himself.

"Then we need not waste any more time." Mycroft stood straight and waited for Hamish to follow. Striding to the swing doors across the room, his uncle began to explain how Hamish's time in his care would play out, down to the tea and sweets he would be allowed at the end of each class.

 

**\---**

It took three lessons for Hamish to decide that telling his dad was in his best interest.

 

**\---**

It took three weeks after the fatal seventh lesson for Sherlock to stop cursing each time his brother was even hinted at in conversation.

 

**\---**

The nice thing was that, in the aftermath of their plans falling through, John had been able to placate Sherlock with the idea that they would borrow Mycroft's facility to teach Hamish themselves.

(But they didn't tell him that Mycroft would still be present.)

* * *

 

**On Nightmares**

Hamish continued to stare off at Mrs. Hudson's Thomas Kinkade shelf. At least, he assumed it was her Kinkade Shelf. He could make out the hazy shape of a collector's plate, so he guessed that he was looking in the right direction.

Either way, it didn't matter. He just wanted to go back to sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Not long ago, he awoke to what he thought was Dad's pained whimpering. By the time he was able to define the sound there was nothing to hear but the soft huffs of his dad's breathing. He almost doubted that he'd heard anything - he had nothing to confirm it - so he waited.

Eventually Hamish's eyelids began to pull low, and he was lulled into a half-aware limbo, but the sound of Dad's shuttered cry jolted him out of it. Disoriented and startled, his stomach twisted. The panic of knowing that  _Dad_  made that noise, paired with the reawakening, left him floundering.

Once stable enough to think clearly, Hamish held his breath and listened to the choked noises John made. It didn't take long for him to realize that he was eavesdropping on a nightmare.

Chances were that Hamish had been present for one of his dad's nightmares before, but he had no memory of it.

The nightmares didn't happen often, he knew, and he assumed Father was always the one to (subtly) fuss over Dad when they did occur. Father wasn't home now, though. He had flown to Seattle the night before to solve a case for a well-off woman, who promised a generous check they would certainly put to good use now that their flat needed to be fixed. (Thank God for Mrs. Hudson. She wasn't pleased with the circumstances, but she took them in as soon as it became clear that they had to stay elsewhere.)

John gasped, and Hamish's mind snapped to attention. He couldn't leave his dad to endure his nightmare much longer. It was distressing to both of them, and Hamish fought a flinch at every agonized noise wrenched from his dad, tiny and muted though they were.

He took a moment to look at his options - Leave him be was out of the question. So, move him? Talk to him? - and finally settled his hand over his dad's forearm. When nothing seemed to change, he tightened his hold, hoping to make the transition out of sleep as smooth as possible.

As soon as his dad jerked awake, Hamish let go. He didn't want to make Dad think that he needed to share anything.

His chest constricted when Dad began to gasp Father's name and reach out to the open air beside the sofa. John hit nothing and realized that his husband wasn't there, letting the name fade. Hamish stayed quiet while his dad panted.

At last, Dad whispered, "sorry".

"Don't be."

Hamish watched Dad squint back at him through the darkness. He saw the irritation and worry written all over Hamish's face, but John knew his son; the boy's irritation was directed elsewhere.

"I'm fine, Hamish," Dad said. The arm he hadn't left dangling over the edge of the sofa came around to smooth over Hamish's hair, and it frustrated Hamish even more. He wasn't the one that needed the comforting.

He grabbed his dad's hand as it reached for Hamish's hairline again. "So am I."

Dad's soft expression loosened the worried knot in Hamish's stomach. "Thank you," John said.

Hamish gave his dad's hand a small squeeze, and let it go. He pulled the blanket up to his shoulder, tucked in his feet, and burrowed his head back into the pillow.

"Night, Dad."

"Love you, too." Dad sounded exasperated at being dismissed, but his fondness was palpable.

Hamish smiled to himself. "Love you," he answered.


End file.
